“Ask me again on Monday,” he deflected. Discussing how they’d both gone hungry as children was not something he wanted to do at any time, but especially not now.
“So cautious,” she teased with a knowing half-smile. “As if there’s anything Vidal could change over the weekend. And what areweto do in the meantime? Jules will go insane if we don’t keep his mind occupied.”
“I’m not suggesting you both shouldn’t enjoy the city. Just that it’s going to take more than reaching the last mile of a very long journey to inducemeto do so.”
Jules’ laugh turned Ronan’s head toward the connecting door between their rooms. Their brother leaned insouciantly against the doorjamb, wearing a hotel-branded bathrobe and sporting a messy crown of dark hair that he tamed into a flamboyant pompadour when making himself presentable. “But you’re so charismatic for someone so antisocial. You lure the women, and I console the ones you don’t pick.”
Shaking his head, Ronan crossed the living room to his bedroom. “You manage just fine without me. You’ve yet to spenda night alone since we arrived, and we’ve been here nearly two weeks now.”
And he understood how early childhood abandonment made being alone unbearable for his brother. In that, they couldn’t be more different.
“Two weeks too long.” Jules raked his fingers through his hair. “As pleasurable as that aspect of this trip has been, I miss the pace of seduction we enjoy back home.”
“As if you don’t move with lightning speed in either locale,” he retorted, snatching up the matching jacket to his dress slacks from where he’d tossed it on his bed earlier.
“Where are you going?” his brother demanded.
“Jazzie’s.” He caught up the handle of his trumpet case.
“For a man who doesn’t like crowds, you don’t seem to mind drawing them.”
Ronan shot him an arch look. “The music draws the crowds.”
“Modesty doesn’t suit you,gros bête,” Jules countered in his deep, slow drawl. “Neither does celibacy, sopour l’amour de Dieu, please take the opportunity while Claudy and I are out this evening to bring a woman back to the suite with you. You need to get laid.”
“Forgive my crudeness,petite sœur,” he warned his sister before meeting his brother’s gaze, “but I take that kind of advice from my dick,couillon,not you.”
“If the women here aren’t doing it for you,” Jules said, “fly your plane home and let Scarlett sweeten your temper.”
Striding toward the door, Ronan chose to ignore his brother’s suggestion and took his leave with a quick, “À tantôt!”
Ronan flashed a smile at the bandmates sharing the stage with him as they finished “Blue Train” to abundant applause. The music-themed Vidal Hotel had a popular jazz club with nightly live music from a resident house band, which was an unexpected perk he’d come to appreciate. Though he always traveled with the instrument, it wasn’t always possible to find the appropriate space to play it. The volume of the horn was unlikely to be received well by his neighboring guests.
“The stage is yours, Mac,” the saxophonist said to him, shortening the McCaffrey surname he’d introduced himself with, as most of the staff in the bar did. “We’re taking a break.”
Cliff’s smile was bright against his dark skin; his eyes lit with congenial warmth. When Ronan first approached the band, it was simply to compliment the players. In the ensuing conversation, they’d touched upon his own musical inclinations, and they’d invited him to stop by after hours. He’d managed to impress, and they had extended an open invitation to join them whenever suited him. Eventually, that resulted in actually ceding the stage to him at times. Live music was preferable to piped, and it cost them nothing to have him play.
He couldn’t be more grateful. Music could always transport him to a primal place in which he felt most comfortable. Away from people, unnatural noise, and social rules that constricted him until it was difficult to breathe.
Grabbing a stool, Ronan moved it closer to the microphone that waited center stage. He settled into a half-seated position and raised the trumpet to his lips, letting his internal upheaval guide his song choice. The first few notes, slow and melancholic, felt like his soul sighed with relief. The room quieted, and he began to sink into the melody…
An electric current swept across his skin, raising the hair on his nape.
His fingers trembled for an instant against the warmed brass keys, his focus drawn by the almost familiar but still unwelcome sensation. It was not unlike the feeling of danger at his back, unseen but alarming. An ambush.
Relying on muscle memory to keep playing, he lifted his gaze to scan the room. He locked eyes with electric aqua irises almost instantly.
He wouldn’t be able to say later how he managed to keep breathing through the song. Everything inside him felt as if it seized in startled disbelief. He was assailed by a sense of recognition beyond the obvious that he couldn’t quite explain. Was he truly surprised to see Ireland Vidal standing at the bar, one stiletto-heeled shoe resting on the foot rail as she stared at him with focused intensity?
Or had he secretly hoped they’d cross paths this way?
She studied him for a long moment, her gaze heated and her lush mouth thinned into a furious line. Sam, the bartender, spoke to her, but she didn’t look away, her shoulders squared as if preparing for an unpleasant and angry confrontation. Her eyes narrowed as she raked him from head to toe in an intangible, rough caress.
Mon Dieu… He felt a stirring, an amalgam of too many reactions to catalog. She could not have stood out more to him if a spotlight shone on her. The rest of the packed bar receded into complete obscurity. His vibrating inner agitation shifted into a pulsing beat of anticipation.
Had she brought their fight to him? He relished the thought. Nothing raised his blood like a worthy adversary.
With a toss of her long hair, she turned away from him in a callous dismissal that made him smile inwardly.Tu es magnifique, cher.
